Ticket

She could drive herself crazy thinking about it, thinking about anything other than this moment.  And she would have, a year ago- hell, even six months ago.  She'd have spreadsheets and graphs and have analyzed each and every way it could go wrong to calculate the percentage, the likelihood of failure.  Now the mere thought of such a reaction exhausted her, and she exhaled it like a rotten taste in her mouth.  Bleh.

She didn't hesitate as she mounted the first step, simply handed the ticket to the driver, smiled and greeted him with a genuine, heartfelt "Hello!"

He looked up at her, as if awakened from a snooze.  He studied her face for a just a second, and upon seeing genuine warmth there a smile lit up his own face, pulling the edges of his lips up and revealing old, yellow teeth.

She paused, for just a split second, refusing to rush a genuine contact with another soul.  It was one of many practices she'd integrated into her life, and one of many reasons she was boarding this bus now.  No fear, no more hiding, just living.

He nodded at her and she widened her smile briefly before turning to walk down the aisle.  She sat herself down by a window, her one creature comfort for the trip, and settled in.

And as the other passengers filed on and stashed their bags and sodas and seated themselves she breathed in the wonder of it all.  Not where she was going, or even what would happen once she was there, but just the simple awareness of the moment.  The knowledge of being right there on that bus.  And she felt an awe for the gratitude she could feel for such a simple thing as a ticket.

The Letter

She'd handwritten the whole thing just because it felt wrong not to.  It ended up being a lot shorter than she'd thought or wanted.  Apparently polishing off an entire bottle of wine by herself wasn't the best way to finally get over the hump and finish the damned thing.  Though she had finished it, and in the end she consoled herself that was enough.

She walked to the post office, grasping it in her hand, feeling her feet hitting the pavement and her heart beating out of her chest.  She could have just driven there- it would have taken her a third of the time.  But for the same reasons she couldn't type the letter she couldn't drive to the post office. This was a declaration, a decision, a powerful, important moment.  This meant something.

She held the folded paper and ink and stamped envelope up to the slot and paused.  For a second, the fear returned.  Words like "wrong" and feelings like fer and pain jumped to the surface.  Another one of those moments in an endless seas of moments lately that felt unreal.  Life didn't work like that- like this.

But she took a breath, pushed her feet into the ground beneath her and shoved her hand forward.  The letter slid into the slot and stuck, the tilt too great for it to topple over into the bin.  She pushed her fingers, hugging the lip with her pads.  The letter slid forward and down.  And it was done.

She breathed out, swaying slightly on her ever-so-firm feet.  It was a moment, no denying it.  It was a benchmark that would stand out in her story.  It was a letter.  And it was mailed.

The Story

We all tell stories.  Some as transient as clothes or quick jokes that can't be repeated too often- they go out of style.  Some as permanent as bones which act as the pillars to hold up our legacy.  We use them to define ourselves, our world, our lives.  We use them to explain our existence.

But stories are told by storytellers- those who have wit and charisma to spice up the dull parts and add tension and terror where it's needed.  Those who can lilt their words and lengthen their pauses to lull the listener into calm or excitement.   Those who remember how to spot in the crowd, how to deliver the punch line.  The story is just a tool in the aresenal, and it's meaning is given to it by the story teller.

All of our lives are stories, every moment being cataloged and remembered for a specific purpose.  As we tell these stories, as we repeat them over and over again, the truth gets foggier and foggier.  The events they were based on aren't as clearly remembered.  The details get left in favor of the overall message, the purpose of the story.

And what happens when the story breaks?  When the message doesn't match the facts?  Well then the arguing begins.  "That's not how I remember it".  "It didn't happen the way you're saying it did."  "You're exaggerating."  We quibble about the details, we get lost in the facts (none of which are clearly remembered), we get angry at the missed points or the lack of continuity.

And all the while, we miss that we're not telling the same story anymore.  We miss that the purpose has changed.  We miss the message, because the details aren't clear anymore and we can't rebuild the power the tale once had.

It hurts when a story breaks.  It hurts when we realize that maybe it was just a story- that the powerful, almost magical way it carried us was perhaps just a creation of the storytellers.  It hurts when we realize that the facts that made it up in the first place are gone, replaced by memories hand-selected by the story because they supported the message.  It hurts when we can't tell the story anymore because it doesn't feel true.

And when the story breaks down, when the storytellers run out of words... the silence is deafening.

The Wall

It started out as a pebble, an inconsequential thing that wouldn't even cause one to trip as they walked with ease across the space.  They fell into each other easily and love blossomed the way it always does.  It didn't matter that the pebble was chipped off of something much bigger- neither of them were looking, neither of them sought to see.

As more stones were added, no alarms were raised.  Everyone carries something with them, everyone is weighed down by something.  Here was the place to unburden, to stop bearing the load, to let go.  But the stones were collecting, even then.

Over time, habits developed, as they always do.  A thought or idea not expressed, another stone added.  A feeling strongly felt but denied, another stone added.  Fears and potential disasters holding back the lovers- stone, stone, stone.

But there was still love there.  And the barrier wasn't thick enough to block out their voices, it could not prevent their touch.  They reached each other, still.  And they loved deeply.

Neither one noticed as the wall was built through large and small interactions, through words unspoken and feelings stifled, through hurts and injuries and exhausted options.  Neither one dared to label the difficulty in reaching through, the impossibility of maintaining contact.  Neither one was willing to say that they couldn't see.

And everyday life went on.  Without destruction, without change.  Ignorance is bliss, as they say.  But day after day, the patterns repeated themselves.  Day after day, the wall grew.

They it hit on in a surprise battle, erupting over the slightest push to the now firm tower of stone between them.  A touch and it's extent was realized, it's mass registered.  But they couldn't allow themselves to see, couldn't confront the reality.  Too many stones, too long, too tall, too impenetrable.  Best to leave it be, better to pretend.

The next eruption was sudden and violent- a full-on sprint against the wall and fast, painful recoil.  There were serious injuries- broken bones, bloody limbs, egos on life support and confusion all around. How had such a huge barrier gotten between them?  How long had it been there?  Could they break through?

They yelled to each other over the towering height of the wall and their answers were muffled and faded by the time they reached the bottom.  Their anger intensified and attacks were launched on both sides.  They threw more stones at the wall, trying to break through.  They scratched and clawed at the surface, trying to find a crack they deepen.  The screamed in frustration and beat their fists against the surface, desperate to be heard, to be seen, to be reached.

But the wall was old, older than either could ever allow themselves to admit, and it's barrier stood fast.  Words unspoken are powerful blocks to build upon.

In the end, both sat on wither side- exhausted, spent.  Their energy drained, their spirits defeated.  Eventually, they would pick themselves up and walk off- away from the wall and the person on the other side.  They would tell stories of their isolation, their attempts to break through, their failure.  They would cry and rage and finally drop.  And then, one day, they would go looking for another lover- careful to avoid any stones.

The Things We Keep

A box of old photos, the ones that never made it into the scrapbook
despite having purchased lovely, leather-bound albums
in which to place them.

An old bag of shoes that were meticulously collected,
worn once,
and forgotten.

The remnants of that party
the one where you researched
and decorated with unusual, beautiful items
that you never could bring yourself to throw away.

A suitcase full of clothing-
switching out the winter or summer wardrobe.
At least,
that was the plan.

So many boxes, so many memories
the mind reels from the strain of collecting them all
considering them all
loving them all.

While the life lived that is catalogued here
suffers.

Seeing in the Dark

On the bow of a great ship.  Perfect by design, regardless of what complaints you may have of it.  It was made that way.  And it is yours.

Looking our over the horizon but seeing nothing.  The fog is too thick, the night too dark.  The air so heavy your lungs labor under the burden of breath.  Your bones ache and creek with the same rolling sway of the ship as it bobs in the tide.

You're moving, but you don't know where.  You can't see.  No point in steering- you wouldn't know which direction in which to point.  So you stand there, on the bow of this great ship, and wait.  Listening to the waves, swaying on your feet, and wondering what will come next.

But it isn't a useless delay.  It is not a time of no action.  Something is building.

Out there, in the dark, beyond the fog- something is brewing in the wind and water and sunlight that you can't see.  Not yet.  But something is taking those thoughts of yours, something is mixing those swelling desires in the tumultuous seas beyond your brow.  Be careful what you wish for- but do wish.  Do dream.  Do envision.

Because in the dark, in ways that your conscious mind can't grasp, there is much to be seen.  There are actions to be taken.  There are important things to be said and many people waiting to hear them.  There is movement and growth and fruitful bounties to be had.  Just up there, just beyond the horizon.

If you close your eyes, you can see it.  Not with your vision, not with your physical body.  But with your sight.  With that part of you that logic dismisses but is so much more aware than you think.  Close your eyes and peer into the dark and you might catch a glimpse of what is coming.  Pieces that don't quite fit together, elements that will change before you can picture their whole.  Things unknowable, but intuited.  It's out there.  And it's coming.

So wait.  Heave those great, heavy breaths.  Dream your dreams and wish your wishes.  And watch the horizon with your eyes closed.

The Seeker- Part 7

 

She was led to the main hall where the light was dimer and the scent of incense encircled her head.  She didn't allow herself to be distracted by the candles or the artwork or the cold stone floor under her bare feet.  She knew better than to judge now, better than to conclude without knowing.  Just look, just listen.

And she was glad- he wasn't what she expected.  Tattoos covered his arms, legs and neck.  His hair was long and unruly and oddly colored.  He didn't have the wise, old eyes of a guru- he had the young, wild eyes of a child.  And rather than the traditional somber robes of the archetype he had rainbow colored  pants and a tank top that read "Wild Thing."  She smirked at herself for thinking he'd be anything different.

"Hey," he said- obscenely casual for such an austere setting.  "How can I help you?"

She sat down before him, assuming her best posture.

"Hey, relax," he said as he himself leaned back on a pillow.

She raised an eyebrow but followed, and her back seemed to explode with gratitude for allowing it to finally rest.  "Thank you."

He looked at her with those wide, wild eyes and waited.  She steadied herself with a breath, and then began:

"I am seeking vidya.  I've been lost in my life, tried so many different things trying to change who I was and I need your help."  There, she'd started.  Her journey could truly begin.

"Do you?" he asked, the same smirk pulling up the corners of his mouth.

"Excuse me?" she asked, irritation creeping into her voice instantly.

"I said, 'Do you?" he said, as if she meant she hadn't heard him.  But the look on his face said that she had and the incredulous expression on hers begged clarification, so he continued.  "It's not easy to get here."

"I know!" she yelled, then instantly shrank back in embarrassment.

"No, no- it's ok.  There's anger in there, you had to go through the fire.  It's cool," he said, sitting up and leaning forward.  "But that's the whole point- you came here.  You faced the fire and the water and the earth.  You breathed the air and listened to the howling wind and saw the light up here- crazy, isn't it?"

She sensed it was a rhetorical question so she said nothing.  But his eager look told her he was looking for an answer.

"Yes, it was- " and she thought about it then, really thought.  Of everything she'd faced, everything she'd sensed, every change she'd surrendered herself to.  "Yes- it's been a wild ride."  And she smiled then, because it really had been.

"Yeah, there you go- it doesn't have to be such a strict ritual.  Seeing is just a state of being, really.  It's just getting out of your own way and living.  It's not what you think it will be, it never is."

And this she heard, this rang true.  "Now we're getting somewhere," she thought.

"Your problem isn't you- it's never been you.  The reason you've been lost is because you've been seeking outside when you needed to look within."

She startled- was he saying he wasn't going to teach her anything?  That she'd traveled all this way for nothing?

"I can see that fire again," he laughed.  "That's a good thing- but listen.  You have what you need within.  You can meditate and study and listen to the wise, old gurus all you want.  But the lessons you need to learn are already inside of you.  You already have what you seek, you just need to get out of your own way."

~

Walking out of the great hall and away from yet another false prophet she felt angrier than she ever had.  So much energy, so much time, so many challenges and for what?  To be told that she already knew everything?  Maddening!

She stormed back to the entrance, past the meditating people, past the rituals and reflections and stopped to pick up her pack.

And then the wind picked up again.  It breathed through her hair, across her skin and down her spine.  She felt the moisture of the snow and the warmth of the sun.  She breathed it in again and her fire cooled.  Her shadow retreated.

And she looked up.  Out at the sun and the air and the landscape, and saw the most breathtaking view she'd ever seen.  She saw the great forest where she'd descended into the earth through ancient roots.  She saw the lake that led to the underground cave where she bathed and moved with freedom.  She saw the field of fire and the leap she'd taken and remembered the promise she'd made to herself.  She saw the fields where the villagers had farmed and remembered the love she'd felt for everything, all things.  She looked out from the top of the mountain and felt the air roaring with the life, saw the light of the sun illuminating the whole world.  And she was overcome by such overwhelming gratitude that it brought her to her knees.

And there she wept.  She wept with love, wept with light, wept with God in her very sobs.  And when she quieted she realized what he had meant.  Look within.  Breathe.  Move and love and feel and steady and leap and cry and see and believe.  All within, and without.  No separation, no disconnection.  Just be.

"Oh," she said to herself.  And laughed.

The Seeker- Part 6

Her ascent was marked with more visions out across the growing expanse of visible land and more affirmations of the power in her voice as she huffed and cursed and joyfully expelled sound into the open air.  She marveled at the strength of her body, so much stronger than she had believed it to be before she embarked on this journey.  She appreciated her legs as they pushed away at the ground, her lungs as they breathed in and out the precious air, her eyes as she looked out at the world around her with wonder and love for all she saw.

So it was almost disappointment that greeted her upon arriving at her destination- so much travel, so many epiphanies only to find herself here at such a familiar scene:

A flat expanse at the top of the rock, thin rugs lain around to soften the hard surface, and rows and rows of the enlightened spread out in front of her.  Their rigid postures with straight back and high head, their hands holding mudras as they rested on their knees, their eyes mostly closed in that un-gaze they were trained to use.  It was instantly intimidating and she faltered, slinking back and struggling with her thoughts.

That old voice came back- you can't do this, you can't be the enlightened person, you're not made of the same stuff.  But she'd learned how to handle that now.  Rather than fighting it she just let it rant.  She breathed, listened to the sound of chanting, focused on her feet underneath her and her body holding firm and waited.

The voice- so full of anger and poison- rattled and ranted and spewed.  And she listened.  And, within a shorter time than she would have expected, it ran out of steam.  The words ran out.  And in the end, she was left with nothing more than that quieter voice she'd been hearing more and more.  Its message was easy and clear: "Just breathe."

She set down her pack, took a seat behind the so-called enlightened masses (which part of her affirmed were there seeking the same exact things as her), closed her eyes, and breathed.  But her body rejected the rigid stance.  Too sore from the climb, too tired for the pose she fidgeted and fretted and moved.  But just as she had with her mind she didn't react- she waited.  She focused on her breath, on the stillness within her, and waited.  And just as her mind had, her body calmed.  She breathed.

She stayed there like that for what seemed like a long time.  But she had no concept of how long, she didn't notice or care.  She just breathed.  And as she did, she noticed a change happen.

The swirl of thoughts and emotions that had erupted upon seeing everyone there seemed to dissipate, weaken and vanish.  The preconceptions she had about why she was here, what she would do, and what it would all mean went away.  And in their place she felt a calm, a renewed sense of purpose, and the same guiding voice that had been there all along.

You can be anything you want to be.   You're not limited to who you were.  You've changed so much since beginning this journey, how could you possibly presume to know where it will lead?  Just listen, just watch with open eyes and mind, and you will see.  You will see.

She opened her eyes and saw clearly.  She saw the light surrounding all of them so far up on this mountain.  She saw the elements which had brought them all there along that same path.  She saw the sky and the clouds and the air and the ether and she breathed it all in.

Then she got up and started off to find the one she'd been seeking.

The Seeker- Part 5

 

She climbed higher into the mountain pass, her determination growing with her strides.  She was feeling bold and strong and connected- but she wasn't.

A gust of wind knocked her clear off her feet and she tumbled over a bolder on the edge, landing slightly further down the rocky surface and taking a scrape on the leg as payment for her troubles.  Anger burst out suddenly and violently as she cursed out loud at her pain, followed by surprise as the sound echoed off the rock walls to her left.

Distracted from the sting she looked up at the high stone face above and around her, and testing, shouted again.

"Hello!" she called, her voice louder and more jubilant than before.

The mountain seemed to repeat her greeting as if on its own accord.  She called again, testing the limits of her sound.  Again the echo bounced her call back.  Soon she was conversing with the stone giant she sat on, call and response flying through the temporarily still air.  She could feel the vibration of the sound reverberating not only off the stone wall, but through the ground itself.  And as it moved she felt that same vibration enter her through her root, up her spine and finally out of her mouth as she called again.  She and the mountain were feeding each other in one continuous, wavering loop of sound.

The wind kicked up again and stole away the echo, replacing it with a screaming wall of air speeding up the mountain.  She peered over the ledge at its source from below and was greeted by a smack of cold, fast sky in her face.  It pulled her hair back from her scalp in a torrent of power and sound.  But she didn't move, she just closed her eyes and let it hit her.  She felt the power and the life again, and the sound in her ears was deafening.

She inhaled and forced the sound again, letting the wind steal it from her lips and join its raging movement up to the heavens.

"Can you hear me?" she screamed.  "I am here!"

And although the wind stole her voice she knew it carried it all the way up the the heavens.

"I am here!" she cried again, watching the colorful wind sweep the sound up and up and up.

And then, without audible sound, she repeated the message to herself:  I am here.  

The Seeker- Part 4

When her feet touched down on the other side and her knees buckled under her weight she felt as though she had passed a point of no return in her journey.  As she stepped forward and worked out the shock from her heels she promised herself that she would not succumb to doubt again, that she would trust that inner voice when it told her where to go, no matter how frightening the prospect.  She left the blackened clearing behind, vowing to simply listen and trust.

Her path took her up into the mountain range she'd seen from the distance, at the top of which dwelt the person she sought.  As she climbed the path the scenery around her erupted with life and her eyes beheld vast fields exploding with plants and food from the nutrient-rich soil.  It was a reminder of how the amazingly destructive power of the lava she'd leapt across could give life to so many things not seen at the source.

She watched as farmers tended those crops, as villagers in the nearby collective cooked them and consumed them, as children danced around the fire where their dinner steamed and grew stronger because of its sustenance.  It was all part of the whole: all valuable, all sacred.

She had an epiphany then, looking out over the life and lives that all relied upon each other.  She realized that she too was whole and that that shadow she'd spent so long fighting and hating was a part of that.  All of her was valuable.  All of her was sacred.  And while she may find herself getting unbalanced at times- while the darker parts of her may have spoken too loudly while the lighter parts were ignored- all of those parts were still a part of her whole.  She was not broken, not lacking, not a thing to be fixed.  She was beautiful.

She felt a growing sensation of warmth and radiant light growing in her chest as she thought these things.  And she felt that energy spreading far beyond the confines of her own body; connecting her not only to the fields and the plants and the animals and the people nearby but back to her family and friends and everyone she had ever held dear- everyone she would ever hold dear.  She realized that she, like the beautiful system of life surrounding her, was intricately and infinitely connected.  Not only was she whole within herself, but she was part of a greater whole that was sustained, fed and rejuvenated by love.

She closed her eyes and breathed then, content for the moment in just being.  Without moving forward, without doing anything.  She felt light and love in the very air around her: the wind whipping across the fields and up the mountain, the breath in her lungs.  She felt boundless and free.

She didn't know how long she stayed there.  It seemed like an eternity and an instant all at once.  But as she resumed her long walk she did so with love in every step.

The Seeker- Part 3

 

It seemed like she'd left the cool, perfect waters so long ago it was difficult to imagine that she'd only been moving for a day.  The climb that followed the emergence from the lake was brutal and tested her resolve with every step.  There were slips and cuts as her feet slid from the missteps or her hands fumbled the grab and it occurred to her that she was fighting with more than just the terrain.

Before long the texture of the rock changed: it was softer, sandier and her hands turned black as she pushed herself up.  As she rose the temperature of the air seemed to rise with her and soon there was steam and the scent of smoke in her nostrils.  Her body began to sweat and the salty liquid felt rejuvenating somehow- like things she really needed out of her body were making their exit through her pores.

She pushed onward, not knowing what was coming next but not daring to indulge those thoughts nipping at the edge of her consciousness.  She focused on the movement and the strength in her muscles.  She kept her mind occupied with the sensory input of a world so strange and yet somehow so familiar to experiences she'd had inside of her own body.

Before long she came out of the caverns and a field of black lay before her.  Setting eyes on it she now understood the heat and the steam and the faint scent of sulfur.  Her feet seemed to bounce on the soft black surface made from years and years of dried and hardened lava flow.  In the distance she could see the mountains she was promised when she set out and the sight drove her forward across the alien expanse.  Steam vents erupted around her and her feet ached from the long climb but she kept on, willing herself to stay true to her cause.

Until she came to the river.  Not one of water, but of fire.  A deep slit in the ground and a flow of magma stretched across her entire path.  It was here that the fear she'd kept at bay through movement finally erupted in full force and claimed her, pushing her back and finally laying her flat on the ground.  She lay there, panting and despairing, and let herself feel the emotion in all its horror.

But that voice which had been with her from the beginning, the one growing in volume with each step she took on her journey, came back again.  "Just look around," it said.  A calm, practical step to take in the midst of such confusion and terror.

She pushed off her pack and looked around- scanning first the edges of the rock, and then further in each direction.  There must be a bridge of hardened magma somewhere, or some narrowing of the gap where she could safely step across.  But as far as she could see there was nothing: no bridge to cross, no safe passage, no break to the unrelenting flow of molten heat.

As panic began to seize her very cells she started running in desperate hope of the view changing- surely it couldn't go on like this forever?  But her legs gave out long before the perpetually retreating end ever came.  She collapsed again, this time for good.

And in her hopeless, defeated state she couldn't fight it any longer- her shadow emerged in all its savage, merciless power.

"What were you thinking?  Of course you can't do this- what an idiot you must have been to even attempt it.  Now you'll have to go all the way back and tell the story of your failure to everyone who asks.  You defective ruin, you weak fool, you useless waste of life..."

She surrendered to it, as the waters had taught her to.  And as she lay there breathing, baking in the heat from the harsh river near foot and not fighting something changed.  That voice, so full of mighty, unyielding power, seemed to fade.  Without her pushing back the dam broke and the hatred flowed out of her.  It seemed to her that she could almost feel it hit the burning surface of the river and join its flow- on to wherever it may lead.

And in the aftermath of such an extreme emptying, shaking and purified and finally free, she had a thought: what if I just jump?

She sat up slowly and took a breath.  The heat of the molten flow hit her in the face but she was no longer afraid of it.  It was made of the same material as she and she knew that without fear she could live in unison with that force, she could even use that power to fuel her.  She stood up and walked the long way back to her pack, watching the flowing light against the obsidian shore.  She mounted her pack onto her shoulders and noted how much lighter it seemed now, how much more easily she moved.

She gingerly crept to the edge and measured the gap in her mind.  Fear bubbled up again, a little trickle of alarm, and listed the facts: her legs were tired, she was exhausted, she might not make it across.  But she didn't argue, she just listened and watched.

And in that space she found her true voice again.  It told her that in order to grow she must leave what she knew behind.  In order to become she had to shed what she was.  "Just jump," it told her.

So she did. 

The Seeker- Part 2

 

The roots of the great tree wound deep into the earth, twisting and winding through the dense terra.  The pathway was narrow and soon became too dark to see and her hands constantly caught in the soil as she tried to steady her descent.  But without her sight she found the touch comforting- a constant reminder of her solid grounding.

"Just be here," she found herself saying when fear crept into her mind.

After what seemed like a long time her fingers began to slide over the surface of jagged rock.  At first sharp edges would poke out from the soil in intermittent crevices.  As she continued on the surface transitioned to hard, smooth stone.  She followed it ever downward, the stone becoming wet and slippery as she moved on.

Soon the sound of water entered her ears- a dripping as if she was entering a cavern.  The wet droplets echoed off the stone walls as she picked her way ever so slowly down.  Then a light began to reflect off the wet surfaces.  At first she thought she'd been in darkness so long her mind was playing tricks on her.  But as she crept further down it grew.  The dripping turned into a constant sound and as she listened she heard a heavy rush of water coming from beyond.

Before long the walls of narrow passage widened and she found herself entering a large cave that stretched high up to the surface where a small opening allowed sunlight and the rushing torrent of water through.  She stared at the waterfall and found herself mesmerized by the glistening surface of the lake it splashed into to.

She searched for a way around the edges of the underground lake but found nothing but steep walls of rock stretching upward on both sides.  She waded just a little ways in until she spotted a shore on the far end of the massive cave.  She stopped then, fear once again grasping her heart.  Would she be able to swim?  What if her pack weighed her down- she could drown there.

But again she breathed, and again trust returned.  The same steady voice that he led her down gave her the next step: "Swim."

She stepped out into the deeper water and stretched her arms over the crystalline surface.  The liquid was surprisingly warm and felt amazing sliding over her skin.  She let go then, her body moving without effort, her mind marveling at how easily she glided.  It was as if the world had wanted her here, had been calling her for years.  She reveled in it: the sensation, the sound, the fluid movement.  A million emotions seemed to wash over her as she swam past the waterfall to the far side- emotions that had laid dormant inside of her for longer than she realized.

It was here that she confronted another lie that had led her actions for so long: the belief that her emotions made her weak.  That the very things that could guide her so fluidly through life somehow made her less than those she admired for their intellect and stony, steadfast appearance.  But here in this space it seemed that everything she 'd derided herself for feeling was finally set free.

She was glad to to finally succumb to them, glad to finally give up the fruitless fight.  She made a promise to remember the feeling and the freedom that came from allowing herself to fully experience it.  And she vowed to never again stifle what was authentic within her.

And as she slowly climbed the far shore of the cave she looked back out at the great lake she had just crossed and said a prayer of gratitude to everything that brought her there.

The Seeker- Part 1

 

When she thought about it she realized the journey began long before she started it.  That internal sense of desperation for something, somewhere that would make sense of life.  That yearning for a feeling of peace.  That panicked, frenzied need for a life raft in the tumultuous seas of existence.  She'd been seeking her whole life.

Her quest sent her in the usual directions: false prophets and misguided philosophers.  Teachers that claimed to know the true path.  Countless books and lectures and exercises all meant to bring clarity and true sight.  But that voice was still there, underneath it all.  Questioning, judging, hating.  And that desperate seeking only increased.

She heard of a place where she might finally find the answers she sought.  But as with all important journeys, this one wasn't easy.  It was a path that wound deep down into the earth, through dark places and frightening possibilities, before finally emerging on a mountain side and culminating with a long trek up into the heavens.

She hesitated- it was a habit born out of constant uncertainty and fear.  But her seeking had led her to some fundamental truths and she knew enough to believe that she had to try, because her soul's thirst  must be quenched.

So she set out, entering into the forest where she was told not to go, looking for the great tree of the stories.  She was fearful upon entering the densely wooded place- so many stories of the evil of witches, the cult of enlightenment.  But she cast these thoughts aside and trusted.

Trusted the simple steps of her feet, the beating of her heart, the movement of her limbs as she crept ever deeper into the woods where the scent of earth was so strong she could taste it.  She felt a peace here, among the sunlight in the leaves and the heaviness of the soil underneath her.  She felt a presence leading her forward, away from the noise of her life and into the quiet of the earth.

And in the stillness she found the ancient tree of the stories with its branches stretching up towards the heavens and its root burrowing deep into the ground.  And there among the unbreakable roots she found the gap in the wood- the narrow opening leading down.

She paused, wondering what would happen if she went further.  But with a steadying breath the trust returned.  "Go down." she heard herself say.  So she did.

The Space Between Words

I wrote this sort-of experimental piece several years ago and posted it here, but back then no one saw it.  I figured it deserved to see the light of day and thought maybe I could get some feedback on it.  I don't really know what to make of it, but I'd love to know what you think. 

 ~

The phone rings for three long, tormenting rings promising a voicemail pick up before a frazzled sounding voice answers. Part of me is glad I won’t have to suffer through the awkwardness of leaving a message and stumbling over my words. The other part of me screams inside my head as I realize that I will have to speak. But it’s been a year and he had called.  I had to call back.

“Uh, hey- hey, it’s Alex. How’s it going?”

“Alex, hello.”

And there it is already. The simple words, the lack of opening, the searching for what to say next. Everyday decorum usually dictates that a greeting will be immediately followed by a question that opens the possibility for a response. But he never makes it easy to start the conversation. I never really understand why, it’s just how he always is. Conversations are never normal, everyday things.

“Hi. How’s it going?”

“I was thinking about you, actually.”

No explanation as to why, just the statement. Odd. And I wonder what to say, other than the obvious question.

“Oh yeah, how?”

“I saw that movie we watched, Brazil. I showed it you, remember?”

Ah, a movie- something I can talk about.

“Oh yeah- God, that was weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Well, it was just all this fantasy world and… it was just weird.”

Ah, good. Two minutes into the conversation and I’ve already managed to sound like an idiot. My perfect record remains. And of course I’m greeted by the silence I would expect.

“I mean, I liked it. It was just weird.”

And the silence again, letting me know… well, nothing really. Our conversations are always filled with long, seemingly full silences. Not the kinds that you have with someone you’re so comfortable with that you don’t need to talk. The kinds you have when you’re thinking the other person must be thinking something. Probably something you can’t grasp. And you have no idea what it is.

“So what’s going on with your life? You don’t have babies, do you? I don’t think I could handle it if you had babies.”

And true to form he manages to throw me with a single question.

“No, no- God, no. Not married, no kids, not planning on having any.”

For just a second I get to sound as non traditional as he actually is.

“Really? You always struck me as one of those girls who wanted a family and all that.”

Of course it wouldn't last.  But that doesn't mean I can't sound a little grown up.

“I did when you knew me. Things have a changed a bit, I guess. What about you? You always struck me as one of those guys who didn’t.”

“Things haven’t changed.”

And he manages to answer my question without actually telling me anything. Always something he was skilled at. And I have to ask, out of morbid curiosity.

“So, are you single? Uh, I mean, you know- seeing someone?”

“Yes, I see her making grilled cheese sandwiches right now. You remember Sarah Kasone? I think you knew her.”

“Yeah, from high school? She’s your roommate?”

“She’s my bed mate.”

“Oh, wow... Wow, it’s a small world.”

It wasn’t that I was hoping that he was single. I got over that crush years ago and I’m pretty settled with my significant other. It's just the idea that he had reached one of those adulthood milestones before I did- living with the significant other. Something I've thought about for so many years, one of those ways you know you’re an adult. And there he is doing it. Him, the drifter. The one who never lived in the same city for more than a three month period once he left our hometown. The one who would sooner die than have an office job or a schedule. The one who has no interest whatsoever in a normal, ordinary life. There he is, cohabitating. And I'm supposed to be the traditional one.

“What about you?”

“Oh, I have a boyfriend. We’ve been together… three years? Yeah, three years.”

“Wow. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

And somehow he makes it sound as if that’s more amazing than living with someone. Then again, maybe it is. 

And the conversation builds into somewhat of a flow. I tell him about my crappy job, the 9 to 5 one he never wanted. He tells me he and his roommate/significant other are going to the New School and living in Brooklyn. I’m honestly happy he got back into school. He was always meant to be a scholar, whether he realized it or not.

We have the freedom to bluntly tell it like it is in that way that you can only do with someone who isn’t a fixture in your life. Or maybe it’s a dynamic I can only have with him. He’s the only person I know who I seem to give annual updates to.

Popping up out of nowhere, making me wonder about a different lifestyle and whether or not my choices are as inevitable as they seem, and then disappearing again.

The aftershocks are always felt for a least a few weeks afterward as I find myself looking at everyday, mundane events and wondering if he has any idea what they’re like. Or if anyone does, for that matter.

We talk as though we’re trying to ride a tandem bike. We both know how to do it, but doing it together is awkward and strange and you can never quite get the pattern down so you move in starts and bursts with the threat of falling over every few feet.

Or maybe he and I never were on the same wave length and I’ve always been trying to catch a ride I could never actually catch. I wonder all of these things during the long, deep pauses in between topics. And most of all I wonder what he’s thinking. I never had a clue.

In the end we descend into a passionate but safe discussion about politics. Safe because we’re both voting for the same guy for the same general reasons. Safe because it’s not about us. And that connection is gone again.

We say that we should talk more often, that it’s good to hear from each other. That we’ll call in sooner than a year. I doubt we will.

He’s been like Hailey’s comet to me for longer than he was anything else. Something that will come blazing through my atmosphere in a fiery, chaotic rush that makes my sky light up for a moment and casts a different light on everything that surrounds me before moving out of orbit again and leaving me standing still.

I wonder how things will look next year.

Hanging Up

You call me up on the phone

while I’m on my way to work

and leave another vaguely hysterical voicemail. 

That panic in your voice

letting me know

you’re on the cusp.

Your emotions

encroaching on my space.

Suffocating me.

And part of me wants to call you back, right away.

To try to comfort you.

Try to counsel you.

Try to save you.

But then the anger boils up to the surface.

The chaos,

the drama,

one crisis after another.

Your word-
crisis.

It’s all so familiar to me.

And I remember

who I am now

and who

I no longer choose to be.

So I tuck the phone

back into my pocket

and drive on.

Ruins

I awoke

exhausted and nauseous.

Your words still replaying 

on the surface of my mind.

Not just last night’s

but the ruins of other failed conversations-

One after the other

stretching back years

like broken columns

and headless statues.

Marking the wars

that we've waged.

And your statement

that this was the same fight,

with the same lack of resolution,

leading to panic

and a sense of shame

greater than myself.

X is for Xerox Box

Source: NationMaster Encyclopedia

I wasn't paying attention,  If I had been paying attention, I would've left it where it was.  But I was talking to you, rambling like an idiot, and I got distracted.

"Spring cleaning is such a lovely concept and such a shitty actual practice," I complained.

"Yeah well, a lot of things are great in theory," you said.

"Like this- what the hell is this, even?  What would possess me to shove a random office box in the back of my closet with no label that might give me even the slightest clue as to what's inside?" I said, pulling it out without even thinking.

"Well, if you can't remember what you were thinking, I certainly can't," you laughed.

Then I opened up the box and the world stopped.

"I uh... I gotta go," I told you, my brain struggling to form the words.

"You ok?" you asked.  You could hear it in my voice.  You must have.

"Yeah, yeah- I just uh.... this is a two-handed operation, you know?" I lied.  

"Ok, well don't work too hard," you said.  I could hear the concern in your voice, the warning.  But I was already gone.

I gave you a superficial farewell and hung up.  I heard my phone clatter to the floor, I didn't even put it down.  My hands were in the box puling out memories before I could think better of it.

After so many years of keeping her hidden, there she was.  Our entire time together in a box in the back of my closet, just waiting for me to open it and fall apart.

A picture of her smiling as she rode me piggy back, the light still bright in her eyes at that point.  Her and Sam and Chris and me all doing bunny rabbit ears to each other as we stood on the sidewalk in the fair.  That stupid elephant I won for her that night cause Sam was a shitty throw.  The necklace we got in that stupid novelty store- the FF of the BFF heart halves she said we had to get because it would be a novel thing to do.  Her favorite hoodie- still torn up and stained with her blood.

I sank back and looked over the contents of the box.  That stupid box that I'd shoved everything into after the accident so there wouldn't be any remnants of her to weaken me.  Cause I had to be strong.  Cause you weren't.

I should've gone through it.  Waiting all these years hadn't made it any easier to see, and waiting another decade wasn't going to help.  But I'd been keeping it together all this time on an idea.  The idea that I was the strong one, I was the rock.  And rocks don't crumble over old photographs and junk.

So I shoved the lid back on and pushed it back into the corner of the closet and closed the door.  Let the dust have it, I figured.  I've got cleaning to do.

V is for Voice

 

Source: Photojournale.com

"I used to think that, too.  But the thing you have to realize is there's no such thing as perfect.  And on any given day, you might not perform it the same.   So if you go out there and you make a mistake, it isn't that you screwed up or that you ruined it- that's just you.  There is no one else on the planet who can do it like you.  This is your opportunity to express yourself- your unique, one-of-a-kind expression of yourself.  This is your voice.  So speak up."

The Rise and Fall of a Supermarket Reunion (A Story In Five Parts)

Chapter One

Browsing through the fruit and vegetable isle you’re lost in squeezing tomatoes and trying to figure out what to get for dinner when you hear a long, exaggerated “Ohhhh myyy Gaaawd!”  You look up and see a face you haven’t seen since high school: Annie Jacobs.  The hair is highlighted and chopped short in a wave and there are crows feet and an unnatural orangey glow to the skin but it’s definitely her.  There is a heartfelt if awkward hug and you almost tear up when sharing brief stories about your lives over the past twenty years.  Of course she got married, and remarried now and her husband is a doctor and boy was it great catching up and before you can even think you’re parting ways.  You find yourself roaming the aisles aimlessly, having forgotten your shopping list in a flood of memories.

Chapter Two

You see her in the soda aisle loading a case of some fancy sparkling water into the bottom of her cart and can’t help but break out in a smile.  “Fancy meeting you here” you quip before launching into a nearly hysterical retelling of the ruined performance of Grease sophomore year that birthed a thousand different inside jokes between the two of you and lead to impromptu choruses of adulterated song lyrics in a variety of inappropriate contexts.  You spend far longer than you mean to recalling embarrassing moments and rebellious pranks and you laugh harder than you have in a while and ask for her phone number when she says that you should seriously catch up.  You wander off happily thumbing the torn paper and marveling on how surprisingly great this shopping trip has been.

Chapter Three

Reaching for a pound of chicken cutlets you see her again; she’s standing in front of the display and half- blocking it with her cart.  “I guess that’s the joy of supermarkets,” she laughs, “you reunite again and again.”  You laugh politely but the fun stories have sort-of exhausted themselves already and you really do have to get home and make dinner.  You smile warmly, saying how it really was so good to see her but you purposely skip the frozen food aisle in hopes of concluding the visit while you’re still genuinely happy to have run into her.

Chapter Four

Turning down the paper good aisle to retrieve toilet paper you spot her looking through paper towels.  You nearly back track but then mentally kick yourself for being so petty.  But in all honesty, it’s really just getting ridiculous.  As you near her you see that she’s parked her cart directly in front of the TP and you start to remember why you haven’t seen her for twenty years.  Because wasn’t she always getting in the way, one way or another?  Didn’t she steal the role of Sandy in Grease while you were stuck as stupid Patty?  And didn’t she always get the solos in chorus while you were forever harmonizing with the rest of the altos?  And didn’t she go to the prom with Mark Cooper even though she knew you were totally in love with him for, like, the entirety of junior year?  That bitch.  It’s not enough that she stole all your big moments in high school, now you can’t even wipe your ass because of her!  You give her a weak smile as you reach over her cart and grab a four pack, then beat a hasty retreat back down the aisle.

Chapter Five

You make your way to the check-out stands, nearly holding your breath as you wait for her to emerge at the end of a line and once again block you from getting your damned groceries.  All the pleasant memories have faded and now you want nothing more than to get out.  How silly for you to forget that the tall, beautiful Ann was the bane of your high school existence; effortlessly taking everything you worked so hard for.  You scan the horizon for her high-heeled figure to emerge and curse the pimpled checkout boy for not going faster.  Completely forgetting all the coupons you’d cut you swipe your card and violently shove your bags into your cart, nearly running for the door.  Safely in the parking lot you rush to get everything into the trunk of your car while your brain recalls a thousand horrific failures that perfect Ann succeeded at.  The dances, the boyfriends, the compliments and praises from teachers all directed at her while you followed her around like a dog begging for the scraps of her popularity.  You see her coming out of the store as you turn on your car and look in the other direction, backing out as fast as you can and cursing her for ruining everything.  When you get home, you throw her number away with your receipt.

On Witches

Imagine this.  Thousands of years ago a group of people got together and decided to make a soup.  They decided they would include in the soup all sorts of tasty and healthy ingredients and eat it all the time.  In fact, they would structure most of their time and activities around this soup.  The soup was so good, that people specialized in learning how to make the soup and devoted their entire lives to that practice so that everyone else could eat the soup.  The soup was so popular that pretty soon everybody and their grandmother was eating it.  And as its tastiness spread, some natural variations occurred.  People added their own spices, threw in some local vegetation, varied the cooking time based on the kind of fire they had to cook with.  All in all, it’s still soup but it tastes a little different depending on where you eat it.

Fast forward a bit and this group of people come around eating sandwiches.  The sandwich eaters think the soup eaters are just crazy- all those ingredients  is blasphemous.   There should be one main ingredient- the true ingredient.  The soup eaters don’t like the sandwich eaters for trying to take away all their ingredients, so they do their best to get rid of the sandwich eaters.  It’s a huge fight.

Then one day this king decides he’s gonna eat a sandwich.  He decides he likes it.  He likes it so much, in fact, that he decrees that from now on everybody has to eat sandwiches and those found eating soup are gonna be in big trouble.  This starts happening all over the place and now entire kingdoms are outlawing soup.

The soup eaters, not wanting to give up their tasty meal, start eating their soup in secret.  They go out into woods cause no one will see them eating soup there.  Even better, they do it at night so there’s definitely no chance anybody’ll see them.  The sandwich eaters become convinced the soup eaters are up to no good.  In fact, they think, they’re making poison soup!

Chances are some mean spirited folk did poison the soup, but most of the soup eaters just want to eat their soup in peace.  But now the sandwich eaters start saying that not only is all soup poisoned, but the soup eaters must be evil.  So not only will you get in trouble for eating the soup, but if you know anyone who does or if you ever asked anyone to make some soup for you- even if you only intended to give it to a friend cause they could use some tasty soup- you’re in big trouble.  The sandwich eaters become so intent to rid the world of soup eaters that they start burning them at the stake.  The practice of making soup becomes so obscure you wouldn’t even recognize the soup if you tasted it- virtually none of the original ingredients are there and it tastes totally different.

This, in a nutshell, is the story of paganism and witchcraft (metaphorically speaking).  And yes, I did just boil down thousands of years of human history involving religion, politics, culture, gender roles, the structure of civilization and a bunch of other key factors into a story about soup.

My point?  The story of soup- er- witches, is a fascinating history that is far beyond this little entry here.  But in terms of knowing why witches are associated with Halloween?  Well, all those thousands of years ago, people ate soup on Halloween.